


Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This

by thisiswhatthewatergaveme



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Carnival, F/M, First Dates, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 21:16:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3090170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiswhatthewatergaveme/pseuds/thisiswhatthewatergaveme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the prompt: "simmons and trip go on a first date to the fair. EVERYTHING GOES TERRIBLY WRONG BUT THEY WON'T ACKNOWLEDGE IT TO EACH OTHER BECAUSE NEITHER WANTS TO RUIN IT. it is precious and everyone is fine!!" </p><p>I think I stuck to it pretty well, really.<br/>Everyone's unhappy until everyone's not, and it's cute all the way through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted [here.](http://mediocrewhiteboy.tumblr.com/post/106863417654/simmons-and-trip-go-on-a-first-date-to-the-fair)  
> The title's from a [song by The Shirelles](https://youtube.com/watch?v=WQlImg2bm28) that should fit this mood to a T!

“I mean, you do have the day off.”

“No, I know! I just…”

“And you _did_ mention it.”

“I’ve just got such bad luck when it comes to, erm.”

“Dates?”

Jemma squints up at Trip, trying to find a way out of this. On the one hand, yes, exactly, that is _exactly_ what she means, dates _never_ go well and it’s a well-worn sign of insanity to try the same tactics to produce different results.

On the other hand, Trip is smiling at her like she’s being ridiculous, and, well. He really does have a very nice smile. Oh.

“This, er. Town,” she says. “After my HYDRA stint, you see. How do I know that someone won’t recognize me?”

“Don’t worry,” he says gently, and his hand on her shoulder is _so large, hallelujah_. “No one’s getting to you while I’m there. Besides,” he continues, his good cheer back, that stupid, horrible, miraculous smile back in place, “it’s at the edge of town, and I doubt HYDRA gets vacation days.”

“Vacation days! That’s a nice way to put it.”

“Yes,” he says, pointing his bandaged hand at her, “it is.”

He’s probably trying for a gun-type motion, maybe a thumbs up. It doesn’t matter; his hand is so thoroughly bandaged to permit no movement. It’s just sort of waving in the air like a swaddled balloon.

“You’re ridiculous,” she says, but when he sweeps his arm forward, she’s the first one out of the room, ready for whatever the day throws at them.

 

+

 

She was _not_ ready. For any of this. Not even _remotely_.

 

Nothing makes that clearer than the draft that’s reaching places that it _should not be able to reach_. There’s a tear in her dress, which, fair, alright. Perhaps she shouldn’t have worn a dress when rides were an option. But all the way up her side, from knee to waist? _Why_ , whirling teacup? Why.

 

Her face has never been redder, and Trip’s face when he looks at her is worse. It’s like he can’t quite understand what he’s looking at. It’s her, halfway to tears, the edges of her dress held in one hand, hitched up onto her hip, holding her lips as steady as she can.

 

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“Could I possibly borrow your jacket?” she asks. He’s already handing it over, bless him, and by god, she is going to make this _alright_.

“Jemma—”

“Just a moment, Antoine, if you please.”

 

Over, under, laid flat, wriggle a little bit and—there. The dress shows a little more too-pale thigh than she expected, perhaps, but it’s fixed closed with her hair pins and the body of Trip’s jacket, holding all of her together.

 

Perfectly manageable.

 

“Ready to move on?” she asks, shaking her head back to fan her hair out, running rampant in the breeze.

 

The smile he shoots at her is new—she catalogues it, of course, #5, a little slow, marginally awed, almost _bashful_ —and she has to clear her throat before she says something regrettable about it. Like _why are you looking at me like that_? Or, just as likely, _please never stop_.

 

“Yes ma’am,” he says cheekily, and she swats him on the arm before folding hers through his.

 

“I’d like some cotton candy. We should do that next.

 

+

 

“These aren’t even supposed to be _flammable_!”

“Jemma—”

“ _No_. That is _not_ alright, and you can bet I’ll be having words with R&D _immediately_ on our return—”

“Jemma, it’s fine.”

“It is _not_ fine, you were healing! And now look at you!”

He frowns prettily up at her— _pay attention Jemma, this is_ not _the time_ —and pulls his arm closer to himself, where his bandages are half tattered, half blackened.

“I’m still healing. It didn’t catch skin. Well,” he allows, “not much of it. Just stings a little bit.”

“Knife wounds, now burns. I wonder how much more that hand can take,” Jemma says, a little snootier than necessary—but he _deserves_ it, because he should _not_ be this calm about potentially serious injuries.

The cotton candy vendor behind them is still blubbering his apologies, because _of course_ nothing like this has _ever_ happened before and he’s been making cotton candy for _like six months_ and this is _for sure_ the first time that the machinery’s sparked a fire on the paper banner in front of the stall. The paper banner right next to the bloody counter that they were leaning against.

And Antoine Triplett, hero extraordinaire, just _had_ to tear it down and stomp on it, mindless of the smoldering if his bandages until Jemma’d swatted at them hard enough for him to yelp and stumble back, landing bottom-first in a puddle in the dirt.

 

“It’s _fine_ ,” Jemma finally snaps at the vendor. She deserves an absolute trophy for tolerating his _blathering_ for so long, but as soon as she’s spoken, Trip’s good hand is against her hip and he’s moving forward, all good grace under pressure.

“It really is, man,” he says earnestly, nodding at him. “Accidents happen.”

His hand squeezes at her hip. Naturally, it’s his fault that she can’t turn around without tucking herself up against him, nestling in against his chest.

 

They stay like that for a bit, after the blathering man has gone away to wring his hands elsewhere, after the small crowd, drawn like figurative moths to the literal flame, has dissipated, and the smell of smoke has somewhat abated.

“So,” Jemma says hesitantly, and Antoine’s hum in response vibrates against her cheek. “Ferris wheel next?”

“Race you there,” he says, and chuckles, and she could probably fall apart under all these vibrations.

 

+

 

“Maybe we should’ve seen this coming,” Antoine says thoughtfully, but Jemma doesn’t even _care_ anymore, because he’s got an arm slung around her, and the sun is just setting, and there’s a warm breeze in the air, sending her hair tickling against both her cheeks and his.

“Probably,” she agrees, as their passenger car rocks a little on another gust of wind.

“Too bad we didn’t,” he says. “If you get cold, I don’t exactly have another jacket to give you.”

Jemma laughs into his shoulder, and turns her face up to glare at him playfully, his smile giving her all the warmth she needs, and isn’t _that_ an embarrassing thought.

 

Hypothesis: were she to tip her head up, he may bring his face closer. Were he to bring his face closer they would, perhaps, kiss.

 

Experiment: Jemma leans towards him, balancing herself with one hand on the seat, one leg moving, slowly, towards his, edging them closer together.

 

The ferris wheel rattles to life violently and abruptly and she topples out of her admittedly precarious position, falling like a lump straight to the floor of their carriage.

 

“Jemma!”

“No!” she squeaks, batting her skirt down and crossing her legs, “No. I don’t want to hear anything right now, thank you.” Her face is hot. Her eyes, where they’re squinting against the _wind,_ of course, god, it’s getting colder on the way down, and that’s not how it’s meant to go, are watering.

 

They stagger out of the Ferris wheel carriage with shaky knees—on her part—and sheepish glances—on Antoine’s. The lights look brighter now, with the sun almost down, children shrieking over toys and too much sugar, carnival patrons and vendors alike smiling and shouting, shining against the multicolored rides. It’s beautiful, really. So is Antoine’s hand, pressed to her back to steer her around a group of sprinting adolescents, warm and wide.

 

She drops back a little so that she can take that hand in hers instead, folding their fingers together.

His eyes are crinkling up into a smile when she tips her head back to look at him, bumping against his arm with her shoulder.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” he answers. “You know, there’s a Tunnel of Love ride around here somewhere.”

“Oh, goodness, no,” she laughs, a little too high and shrill to pass off as casual. “I’m not risking a drowning, thanks.”

“Or any more ruined clothes,” he says gravely, only the twitching of his lips giving him away.

“I think solid land will do,” she tells him. “Something that won’t be going anywhere any time soon. A good, solid foundation.”

“For what?”

“For this.”

When she tugs him down there’s a moment, half a second at most, where she worries that he might not drop down to her level, that he might not kiss her back, that he might not agree with whatever it was this _could be_.

In the second half of that half-second, she thought, _sod it, he’s been smiling at me all day, he must be keen on something and I want to know what that bloody smile feels like, take my mind off of how cold my bum is right now_ , tugged a little harder, and went in with both lips swinging.

 

He kisses like he saves people from burning cotton candy stalls. He kisses like he gives clumsy, indecently exposed girls his jacket and holds their hand at fairs and smiles at them in Ferris wheel compartments. He kisses with all the skill and determination of an agent and an edge of softness, curling into a smile that is so distinctly and vibrantly _him_.

 

Jemma lets him go and takes a step back. It’s absolutely necessary. Before she forgets to breathe.

 

“See?” he says, reaching out and yanking her back to him, his hands draped loosely over her hips. “Told you that whole ‘bad luck’ thing was crap.”

 

She laughs herself hoarse pressed against him, and laughs harder when he squirms away from her, yelping at the feel of her cold nose against his collarbone when she pushes herself up on her toes.

 

“I don’t think so,” he growls, and sweeps her up into his arms, knocking her knees out into the cradle of his arms.

“How _rude_ ,” she squeals, and her eyes are watering again, that ridiculous _wind_.

“I’m cold,” he shrugs, rolling her closer with the motion. “Gotta get some of that body heat back.”

“Uh huh.”

“Besides, I wanted to see you laughing.”

“You could see me from the ground.”

“Hm.”

 

He walks them over to a bench and sits her down first, draping her legs over him as he shimmies in next to her.

“Did you have fun?” he asks, and she isn’t sure how to answer that. On the one hand, they _had_ spent time together without the fate of the free world hanging over their heads. On the other… She twists her fingers into the ripped seam down her side, gooseflesh rising at the cold.

“Of course,” she tells him, and it isn’t _exactly_ a lie.

“You know there’ll be more days like this, right?”

She snorts, tucking her knees up a little closer and sticking her tongue out at him when his face screws up into a petulant pout.

“I certainly hope not. I mean,” she says quickly, “with all of the…” She makes a gesture that she hopes gets across _rips and tears and burns and getting stuck and falling and bad things_ , to the exclusion of the happier bits. “I think I can do without a fair bit of that in my life.”

“Yeah, but there are always days like this,” he says quietly, tucking his own knees up to mirror her pose—although, Jemma notices, he manages to do it in a way that makes him look interesting and cool and not the way she suspects she looks, which is infinitely childlike. “Days when bad things happen. And you have to kind of… take the good. And take the bad. And laugh at the way they land together.”

 

“Wise words,” she says after a moment, trying for a smile. Because the good has been _good_. The bad has been salvageable, at best. In a weird sort of twist, it’s probably lucky that they’ve managed their way around the bad bits so _well_. If she’d been with anyone else, the ripped dress—and _certainly_ the first degree burns—would’ve been the end of the day. The date. Hell, the relationship.

 

His smile turns almost mischievous. “My mama always says you know the good ones by how well you rough out that sort of day. Together.”

 

Jemma feels herself blushing, and she feels it starting from her fingertips and from her hairline, working its way through and meeting in the middle, hot around her heart.

“Well, we certainly managed, didn’t we?”

“We did,” he says, reaching out to cover her hand with his. He leans towards her slowly, his eyes wide and his smile fading to something smaller and quieter. When his lips reach hers, she sighs against them, because _yes_. _This_.

He pulls away for a moment, reaching up to brush her hair back from her face.

“We absolutely did,” he says softly.

“Stop talking, please,” Jemma says.

He does.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be [here](http://mediocrewhiiteboy.tumblr.com), as it pleases you.  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
